


London Nights

by Eulogy_of_the_Cards



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Spoiler alert: They adopt a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eulogy_of_the_Cards/pseuds/Eulogy_of_the_Cards
Summary: The sight he’s greeted with is almost shocking, but not in a bad way; Tommy’s curled up under the throw blanket usually slung over the back of the tacky settee, and the crocheted one they keep in the upstairs cupboard. He’s awake, gently shushing his lover. Alfie wonders why for the briefest of moments, when he realises Tommy’s cradling yet another blanket to his chest, which is breathing just like the blanket bundle Alfie had seen when he first walked in. In that blanket is a kitten, stark white in every place that isn’t dotted with mud. It’s fast asleep, curled into the warmth of Tommy’s chest, and it fills Alfie with such a warm, content feeling that it almost scares him for a moment,
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	London Nights

London weather has a reputation of being undeniably shit.

Bitter cold wind and rain, only worsened by the disappearance of the sun which has long since disappeared over the horizon, taking with it the sanctuary of its warmth and shield against the cruel night air. Alfie finds himself regretting staying the extra hour at work; he’d stayed to finish going over some documents, hoping that the weather would’ve cleared up a little by the time he finally decided to call it a night. If anything, it’s only worsened.

The rain had already been hammering against the window of Alfie’s office, the glass almost seeming to shake with the force of it. He’d been completely engrossed in his work, peering down at words through his glasses - absolutely filthy, where the fuck did he put his cloth - and scribbling down notes in his regular ineligible handwriting, when the door had opened without so much as a knock to  _ signify _ entry. Now, there was only one bastard ballsy - or stupid - enough to barge into Alfie’s domain without any forewarning, not even Ollie thought it smart to risk such a bold decision. So, when Alfie looked up, smiling, to see Tommy closing the door behind himself, it was one of the very few occasions where he didn’t slip his hand into that top drawer,

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected intrusion?” Alfie asks, keeping his gaze firmly locked on Tommy as he makes his way across the room. Tommy places his hands on the back of the chair opposite Alfie, leaning forward ever so slightly. He’s wearing his coat and cap, both are bone dry,   
  
“About to head home, five o’clock, I thought I’d come and see if you’d finally died on the job. Quite fond of inheriting your business…” If it were anyone else, it’d sound like a threat, but Alfie sees the glint in those ice blue eyes, and the corners of his mouth tilt upwards,

“Well, sorry to disappoint, treacle. As you can see, I’m still right as...rain.” Alfie casts a glance out the window. Tommy huffs out a breath.

There’s a moment of silence between them, something rare and oddly domestic. For once, Alfie doesn’t feel the need to fill the air with a nonsensical story,

  
“Working late tonight?” Tommy speaks up, the underlying meaning lingering in the air.

_ ‘Walk home with me?’  _ he wouldn’t ever say that out loud, but his tone and eyes convey everything that his words can’t. Alfie feels his heart bitterly thud against his ribcage, eyes glancing down and peering through the glass at the documents below him. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his beard, a familiar gesture,

“Yeah, you go on without me, yeah? Promise I’ll be home before eight at the latest, maybe you can even cook while I’m gone, eh?” He laughs at his own words, finding humour in the simple idea of Tommy doing anything involving food preparation. Tommy has the nerve to look offended, despite knowing the humour is well deserved. 

Tommy stands up properly, fixing the collar of his coat slightly and pulls his cigarette case from his pocket,

“Alright, I’ll see you soon.” There’s a roar of open flame as the other lights up a match, pressing the flame to the end of his cigarette to ignite it. He drags in a long breath, and the smoke slips from between his lips in a steady stream. Alfie barely stops himself from kissing him breathless then and there. He nods his head in dismissal, and Tommy walks over to the door, sparing a quick, smiling glance at Alfie before he goes.

Alfie watches through the window as Tommy begins heading down the road, the collar of his coat turned up against the unforgiving wind and rain. He watches as his boy flicks the barely smoked cigarette into the gutter, the stick soggy with rain water.

That had barely been more than an hour ago, and in that time, the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, the wind and rain had become more violent, and Alfie had begun regretting not kissing Tommy goodbye back in the office, feeling like the shit weather might be what finally does him in. He presses onwards, ignoring the searing pain in his leg - worse in the right than it is in the left, today - and damning the horrid weather to Hell, which he immediately regrets, because that means he’ll have to face it again in the distant future. Luckily, the familiar glow of the townhouse’s living room light is just up ahead, glistening magically off of the puddles that are splattered intermittently across the pavement. Despite himself, Alfie feels his heart swell, the idea of kicking back on the settee with the light of his life while the rain hammers against the protective walls of their -  _ their _ \- house.

He begins rummaging in the deep pockets of his damp coat, the light from up ahead making the raindrops stuck to the polyester shine as he moves, and his hands find the cold metal of his keys. He pulls them from the warmth of his pocket as he makes his way up the three front steps, hands shaking a little as he turns the key in the lock, breath fogging up in front of him in a poor mimicry of his lover’s cigarette smoke.

Alfie swings the front door open, the warmth of the interior not so much smacking him in the face, but a gentle and welcome caress. He sighs out a breath, clicking the door shut behind him and locking it. He slides the deadbolt across, tutting slightly at the stiffness of it, reminding him of just how many reasons he hates the winter. But, it gives him an excuse to keep Tommy close in the biting cold of the morning, and in the evenings…

Maybe it isn’t all that bad.

Speaking of Tommy, Alfie calls out to him, letting him know that he’s finally home as he sheds his coat and hat, hanging them up on their respective hangers in the hallway before he sheds his soaked shoes, leaving them right next to the door. He pads softly through the hallway, thankful that his socks didn’t get the worst of the weather, because the wood floors are slippery enough at the best of times.

No answer from Tommy, which sparks up a bit of concern in Alfie. It’s highly unlikely that Tommy’s asleep; silly boy doesn’t sleep until the early hours of the morning, if at all. He knows they’ve gotten past the late night walks in terrible weather, but his paranoia whispers in the back of his mind all the same,

  
“Tommy?” Alfie calls out again, taking off his kippah and putting it on it’s usual pedestal of the hallway dresser. He turns and heads through the open door of the living room, the lamp on the end table turned on and casting a warm glow over the cluttered room. On the settee is a pile of blankets, a pile that’s breathing slowly and evenly. The relief runs warmer than the house, and settles in Alfie’s chest. His cane clicks against the wood floor as he walks over to the centre of the room, and he leaves it leant against the back of the settee - he makes a mental note to replace it at some point, the cream floral pattern is bloody nauseating to look at.

The sight he’s greeted with is almost shocking, but not in a bad way; Tommy’s curled up under the throw blanket usually slung over the back of the tacky settee, and the crocheted one they keep in the upstairs cupboard. He’s awake, gently shushing his lover. Alfie wonders why for the briefest of moments, when he realises Tommy’s cradling yet another blanket to his chest, which is breathing just like the blanket bundle Alfie had seen when he first walked in. In that blanket is a kitten, stark white in every place that isn’t dotted with mud. It’s fast asleep, curled into the warmth of Tommy’s chest, and it fills Alfie with such a warm, content feeling that it almost scares him for a moment,

“I couldn’t leave her out there. She was shaking, down by Lady Hal’s, fucking drenched…” He talks quietly, apparently afraid of waking up the cat in his arms. If Alfie listens closely, he can hear her snoring,

“I’m not asking to keep her or anything, I’m sure Cyril would get jealous-”

“He’s an old git, could do with a friend that can be around all day.” Alfie cuts him off, finally deciding to sit down. He peels the blankets back from Tommy and pulls him into his own chest, the kitten moving around a little before settling right back down. Tommy rests his head on his chest, letting out a soft breath. He almost sounds sad, so Alfie presses a kiss to his wet hair,   
“It wouldn’t be fair on her, we’re hardly here during the day, and then there’s the times we go up to Birmingham…”   
“Fuck, Tom, you’re the one who found her and yet here  _ I _ am, yeah, begging to keep her?” They both laugh, and the kitten finally wakes up. Her eyes are almost the same shade of blue as Tommy’s, and Alfie feels his heart clench. She yawns, and fixes her gaze on the new stranger. It takes her a moment, but she wriggles out of Tommy’s embrace and pads across their laps, climbing up until she settles on Alfie’s chest, right next to where Tommy’s head rests. She rubs her face against his beard, her still-damp fur tickling the bald patch where the scar is. 

Her purr is a bubbly thing, short and sweet. Alfie’s completely fixed on her until he notices Tommy staring. He’s got that soft gaze, the one that’s reserved for the most private of moments, the one that even Alfie sees only rarely. He’s smiling, too, sweetly and like he’s completely unaware of it. 

They sit in that blissful domesticity for the next few minutes, until the cat falls asleep again, head pressed up under Alfie’s chin, her small body almost completely obscured by his beard. She’s still purring, albeit a lot quieter now, the small bubbling noises almost silent unless you’re truly listening for them, obscured by the crackle of the fire burning away in the fireplace. Tommy moves slowly, turning his body to sling his legs over Alfie’s lap, arms wrapped around his middle,

“Pol keeps saying we’ll go mad without a woman’s touch.” He says out of the blue, doe eyes now staring into the fire. He yawns, and Alfie pulls him closer,

“Sounds like something she’d say. Lovely woman, your aunt, but whenever she’s about I have to wonder who really runs the business. Did I ever tell you, right, I was down in the kitchen making a cuppa - early morning ‘n’all, so it wasn’t like I was expecting anyone else up - and she comes in, quiet as a breeze, and without saying a damn thing, she pours whiskey into my cup, takes out another cup, and does it again. I go to ask her what the fuck she’s doing, it’s six in the morning, and I don’t imbibe-” Tommy laughs, Alfie has the nerve to look offended, “-alright, I  _ rarely _ do, but anyway, she gives me that look - the one I bloody well know you’re familiar with, because I think she invented it for you - and she takes the kettle off the stove and keeps making tea in those cups.”

“No, Alfie. You didn’t ever tell me.”

“Bloody hell, that woman is more whisky than water, and I wondered where you got it from…”

Time passes, signified only by the ticking of the carriage clock that sits atop the mantelpiece above the roaring fire.

“Eliza’s a nice name,” Tommy says suddenly, blinking up at Alfie for a moment before turning his eyes back to the fire. Alfie smiles despite himself, and pulls Tommy closer. He kisses the top of his head again,

“It is, yeah.” Alfie gently plucks the kitten from under his chin, and puts her in Tommy’s lap. She looks up at them both, mewling before curling up again. Tommy strokes her gently, tutting a little at how the mud is beginning to dry,

“I suppose that she won’t get too lonely, what with Cyril,” Tommy’s doing his best to control his bright smile as he pets Eliza, and Alfie pretends not to notice,

“She’s a tiny thing too, just like her dad. Won’t be too much trouble for our trips.” Alfie chuckles breathily, and Tommy scoffs at the dig at his size, but he doesn’t argue.

At some point, Cyril comes in and lays at their feet with a huff.

The rain continues beating down on the windows, but the cold doesn’t breach the walls. Eventually, Tommy dozes off, both him and Eliza asleep in Alfie’s lap, and Cyril’s snoring breaks through the peaceful atmosphere.

Alfie can’t stop himself from smiling, heart full to bursting. 

It’s not quite a traditional family, but it’s his.


End file.
